


Even educated fleas do it

by AnnaFan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, First Time, Having the talk, Sex Education, embarrassing chaperones, third base
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 17:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3904936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Lady Bluejay's wonderful Tide of Destiny, a somewhat embarrassed Eomer rather belatedly asks Eowyn if she's talked to anyone about what to expect on her wedding night. She breezily replies, "Faramir, of course." Now, how could one resist wondering how that conversation went? A comedy about having "THE TALK". Thanks to Lady Bluejay for letting me pick up this idea.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it,_  
_Let's do it, let's fall in love!_

_Cole Porter_

~o~O~o~

_“Enough about me, Éowyn. I really came to make sure you were happy about everything… and I know it is a bit late, but you have talked to someone about tonight?”_

_Her colour flared, and she put down the brush and grabbed a goblet from her dressing table, taking a big gulp. “Yes, of course, I talked to Faramir.”_

_Lady Bluejay, Tides of Destiny_

~o~O~o~

Faramir tucked Éowyn's hand in the crook of his arm, and together they walked across the greensward, lost in their own little world. Last night they had been trothplighted, and this morning, Faramir had revelled in the simple joy of breaking his fast with his betrothed. It was, he decided, something he could happily do every morning for the rest of their lives. Of course, it would be even better when they were married, because before breakfast, they would wake next to one another. And they would go to bed together, lie next to one another together, even...

 _Elbereth!_ His thoughts were on the brink of drifting into territory that it would be safer not to venture into. He had after all promised himself to treat his betrothed with all courtesy and honour, and he loved her deeply, far too deeply to press for anything beyond a kiss. _A distraction!_ That was what he needed. He hastily looked around him. They were nearing the paddocks on the edge of Edoras, and as usual, within the fences were magnificent horses, unmatched in Faramir's native land.

As they got nearer, however, Faramir realised that perhaps this was not the best direction he could have chosen for their morning constitutional. It appeared that a stallion had been brought in to cover a group of mares, and the horse, a magnificent chestnut, was going about his business with aplomb.

“I'm sorry, my love. Let us go towards the river instead.” He realised his cheeks were heating with embarrassment.

Éowyn surveyed him with amusement. “I have seen horses put out to stud before, you know. Growing up in the Mark, I could hardly not have seen it.”

Faramir looked slightly sheepish. “You may blame my concern on my overly prudish Gondorian upbringing.”

“In that case, in deference towards your upbringing, perhaps we will stroll towards the river,” Éowyn answered.

They walked for a while, and it began to dawn on Faramir that Éowyn was uncharacteristically silent. She seemed deep in thought, a slight frown furrowing her brow. Faramir decided that patience was called for – he would wait and see what she said. Sure enough, eventually she broke the silence.

“It looks terribly uncomfortable.”

“What does?” Faramir asked.

“For the mares... Well, maybe not so much for the mares, for they are used to being on four legs and it seems to go well enough. But...”

In his surprise, Faramir stopped abruptly, and Éowyn, set off balance by his sudden halt, bumped into his hip. She looked up at him, a look of open trust, and brushed her hair back from her brow. “I mean, I have overheard the women talking when weaving, or sewing, or spinning. They seem to find it pleasurable – the bedchamber, that is. I certainly find kisses pleasurable. But that...”

Faramir felt his mind spinning like a child's top. What on earth was he to say? Surely this not the sort of conversation Éowyn should be having with... Then it hit him. Idiot! Her mother had died when she was a child. She had no close female relatives. He swallowed. A sudden realisation washed over him: he was the person she felt most able to talk to, and he should not fail her. Taking a deep breath, he decided to address what he presumed to be the source of her fears.

“Men are not... well, they are not as large, in proportion to their bodies, as horses are. You need not fear on that front.”

“Oh, I know _that_ ,” came the surprising reply. He looked down at her, dark eyebrows raised quizzically. Éowyn continued, “I have seen men swimming in the river in summer. No, it's not that. It's that – well, it looks so uncomfortable. I'm trying to imagine being on all fours, and you behind me, and it really doesn't seem like it could be much fun at all.” Éowyn turned rather pink, and stared down at the ground. “I shouldn't have said that. I'm sorry.”

Faramir took her hands and raised them gently to his lips. Then he placed his fingers under her chin and gently tilted her head upwards so that he could look at her. “My love, you can talk to me about any subject under the heavens. What value would our marriage be if we could not share our thoughts at need, or seek comfort and understanding and reassurance from one another?” He looked at her steadily with his grey eyes, and added, “A man and a woman can do it that way, but there are many other ways, and it is certainly not what I had in mind for our wedding night.” _Cursed cock of a kinslayer, did I really say that last bit out loud? Bugger!_ Now it was Faramir's turn to blush.

Éowyn of course picked up on his slip immediately. “So you have given the matter some thought?” Her cheeks still rosy, the embarrassed expression had vanished to be replaced by a cheeky grin. Faramir shook his head ruefully. The cat was well and truly out of the bag, and there was no shoving it back inside.

“Truthfully? A lot of thought,” he admitted, with a wry half smile.

Once more Éowyn glanced down, but Faramir could see her face through the curtain of golden hair, still smiling. She said, very softly, “So what way did you have in mind?”

His bold shieldmaiden! He should have expected this. “Facing one another.” _Now what do I say? Oh well, I've started down this line, I might as well say what's in my mind. So long as she doesn't repeat it to her brother. Would he kill me swiftly with his sword, or drag me to death behind wild horses?_

“I shall make you comfortable on cushions, and settle above you, my legs between your legs, and shower you with kisses and caresses, and when I am absolutely sure that you are ready, and that you want me as much as I want you, then and only then will I lie with you.”

Suddenly Éowyn looked up at him, her whole face shining as brightly as the noon sun. She stood on tiptoes and kissed him full on the lips. “Thank you my love. I know that I will be safe with you, that you will cherish me.”

Faramir quickly kissed her back, lingering a bit longer than was proper. And definitely with a lot more tongue than was proper. Then he couldn't help but surreptitiously glance over his shoulder. Yes! There was Éothain, a discreet distance away, giving him a stern glare. _An unlikely choice of duenna, but an effective one..._ “I fear that, trothplighted or no, your chaperone thinks we should maintain more of a distance.” 

Éowyn looked towards Éothain, and burst out into peals of laughter at the sight of his disapproving mien. “Well, if we cannot steal kisses,” she said, “We can at least have a conversation he would most heartily disapprove of. You mentioned that there were many other ways.” She cocked her head to one side, looking at him in a quite uncharacteristically coquettish way. He had a suspicion she was doing it quite deliberately, and he began to laugh, only to have her giggle too, and relax into something much closer to her normal stance.

“Well, proud daughter of the house of Eorl, you could ride me.” Inwardly, Faramir fleetingly considered the thought that he really shouldn't be saying this to Éowyn, but the gleeful (and somewhat aroused) look on her face made it more than worthwhile. 

“How on earth would that work? If you were on all fours, and I sat on your back... your pintel would be underneath.”

Faramir had to clutch the fence post beside him to keep himself upright. He started to laugh and couldn't stop, laughed until he cried. Éowyn wasn't quite sure what the joke was, but nonetheless his laughter was infectious – she too ended up quite helpless. Eventually Faramir managed to speak.

“No, no – I'd lie on my back and you would sit astride me. That's what people normally mean when they talk of the woman riding the man.”

He could almost see the workings of Éowyn's mind as she considered this idea. It did not take the second sight of the Eldar to see that she liked the idea – liked it a great deal. Then she gave him a sly, sidelong glance.

“And would you like that?”

Faramir suddenly found it was hard to get the words out. He managed a hoarse whisper. “Very, very much indeed.”

“But not for a first time?”

Faramir paused to consider. “I think the way I first suggested... would perhaps be easier. Though I am not sure. Maybe when the time comes, we can see what feels best to us. In any case, I mean to start by touching you, to show you what pleasure can be found.”

“Touching me?”

“With fingers, and lips, and tongue.” _Tulkas' rod, I should not be saying this to her. But... but... she is so magnificent when she's like this._

“Where?” Éowyn's cheeks were flushed once more, though not with embarrassment, but rather with arousal. Her eyes grey-blue eyes glittered. 

“Everywhere... your neck, your shoulders.” The nagging voice of Faramir's conscience told him he should stop now. But the way Éowyn's lips parted somewhat undermined his resolve. And the sight of the tip of her pink tongue, running along her lower lip, undid his resolve completely. “Your breasts... your belly... your hips... that soft and hidden place between your thighs.”

“Oh!” Those blue-grey eyes widened, the flush deepened, the pink tongue flicked along her lower lip once more. He could have sworn her body swayed slightly towards his, as if it were a compass needle drawn by the invisible cords of a lodestone. Then, “And you? What should I do to ensure your pleasure.” 

“It is your wedding night, beloved. Be assured I will find it pleasurable. But the most important thing for me is that you should find it pleasurable.”

Éowyn reached out and took his hand, lacing her fingers with his. Her touch felt like the lightning laden air before a summer storm – her skin on his crackled with tension. He longed to reach out and draw her into his arms. In fact the longing seemed so strong it was as if it had taken on a corporeal form. He moved a fraction closer, only to be interrupted by a cough from a handful of paces away. While they had been standing hand-in-hand, it seemed that Éothain had come closer. _Oh Morgoth's balls – was he close enough to hear any of our conversation? Hmm... head still on shoulders – probably not._

Éowyn looked at him and smiled. “I think perhaps Lord Éothain is hinting that we should return to the Golden Hall.

~o~O~o~

The next week was possibly one of the most confusing of Faramir's life. His emotions whirled like the coloured smokes and sparks of a wizard's firework display. For the first couple of days he felt utterly torn between lust and guilt.

Every time he recalled the conversation, he could think of nothing else but Éowyn's tongue between her parted lips, and what those lips would feel like against his. Well, maybe “think of nothing else” was an exaggeration – he could think of other things like the swell of her breasts, the sway of her hips, her cheeky smile as she enquired whether he had given much thought to their wedding night, the look of unabashed desire which lit her face when she finally realised what was involved in the sort of riding a woman might do with a man...

But at the same time he was aware that he had told her things that perhaps he ought not to have before their wedding night. Of course, someone had to tell her those things – it would have been unconscionable to let her go to her bridal bed in ignorance of what was to happen. But that someone should not have been him, should not have combined explaining what she needed to know with what could only be described as flirting. Flirting, what was more, in a blatantly lustful way with a woman who was a complete innocent. When he looked at the matter in that light, he felt like the lowest sort of scoundrel imaginable. 

And to make things all the harder, while this war between lust and guilt took place, he had to get on with the job of being a diplomatic and friendly guest. He sparred with Éomer (wondering how deadly the man's blows would be were he to know the extent to which Faramir had sought to lead his sister astray). He discussed with Elfhelm the planning of the defences along the border with Dunland. He and Imrahil discussed trade agreements with Éomer's counsellors, roughing out a plan whereby grain could be advanced against a promise of wool and horses the year after. He played chess with Éowyn, or walked with her in the gardens (planted by their kinswoman Morwen, but run sadly to seed). And their walks were always attended by Éothain, looking sulky and ill at ease (the job of duenna did not come naturally to the man). When not with Éowyn, he took to avoiding Éothain: he strongly suspected that the rider knew exactly what sort of perfidious thoughts he had been entertaining.

The time spent with Eowyn, although delightful, did nothing to help his confusion. She would pluck flowers and lay them carefully in a basket to decorate her brother's chambers, looking the picture of innocent beauty, and he would feel a complete cad. At moments like that he could convince himself that her remarks were driven by nothing more than guileless curiosity and it was his wanton desires which had driven him to place an entirely erroneous interpretation on them. 

But then, halfway through a chess game, she would make a particularly challenging move, her grey-blue eyes would meet his, and somehow the tension, the competitive drive of the game would flare into something more. She would catch her lower lip in her teeth and glance at him from beneath half-lowered lids, and he would realise that he now desperately needed to spin the end-game out for at least another couple of candle marks, not only because the sight of her offering such a blatant challenge was intoxicating, but also because he realised that right at that moment he could not rise from the table without disgracing himself.

After the game, there was nothing for it but to retreat to his chambers and have a cold bath. Another cold bath. He was having a great many cold baths.

Eventually, he decided that he would run mad if he allowed himself to continue spinning round hopelessly. The best course was to assume that the conversation had fulfilled the entirely practical goal of setting Éowyn's worries at rest, assume that the flirting had been one-sided, feel grateful that Éothain had intervened before he pressed his bride-to-be into any actions she would feel compromised by, then forget the whole thing. By the end of the week he had just about convinced himself. 

He and Éowyn went for a ride. For once, Éothain was not in attendance. Elfhelm, his wife Hilde and their daughters, and a small group of riders came with them. And Elfhelm seemed to be content to allow them a rather looser rein than Éothain had been prepared to countenance. (Faramir suspected Hilde might have had something to do with this: he could have sworn he heard her say “Let them be, love. Young couples need to talk, and he is an honourable man.”)

Faramir was doing his best to live up to this estimation of his character when Éowyn reined in her horse and turned to face him.

“Do you remember our conversation of last week?” Her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks had become slightly flushed.

Faramir felt as though he had been struck dumb. He nodded, not trusting himself to talk without his voice coming out in a most unmanly squeak.

“I have been thinking about it. Thinking about it a great deal.” Éowyn's lips curved into an enigmatic smile. “You mentioned touching – with fingers, and lips, and tongue. And it has occurred to me that I could not get with child from that.”

Faramir looked at her, eyes wide with surprise. Eventually he managed to speak, in a kind of half gasp. “No, I suppose you would not.” Éowyn nodded and fell silent for a moment. Faramir waited, stomach twisting with a kind of tortured anticipation, to see where she was going with this line of thought. He had a feeling he knew what she was going to say. He also had a feeling he would like whatever it was. But at the same time, he had a nagging feeling his conscience would tell him he ought not to like it.

“You know, Éomer and I were rather naughty as children. Quite often I would get sent to my room. I became quite adept at climbing out of the window. The wooden frame stands proud of the daub and it is quite easy to gain purchase for one's fingers and toes.”

Faramir swallowed. Was she really suggesting what he thought she was suggesting?

“Last night's feast and excitement has really quite tired me out. I think perhaps this afternoon I shall retire to my chambers to rest. And it is like to be a hot afternoon, I think. I shall have to leave the window open.” She looked at Faramir, her eyes twinkling.

Faramir couldn't help the note of astonishment in his voice as he managed to frame a reply. “Am I right in thinking that is an invitation?” Even though he'd guessed where her thoughts were going, he still couldn't quite believe it.

Éowyn fixed him with the steely stare he knew from the sparring ring. Her voice was an odd mixture of affection and exasperation. “Of course it's an invitation, you daft nit.”

~o~O~o~

_Later that afternoon..._

“Nienna's mercy, I never thought you'd be so loud...” After being lost in sheer sensation for so long, Faramir blurted out the first thought that came into his mind.

He could have kicked himself. Éowyn's blissful expression of sated passion moments earlier was replaced by one of slight worry, her brows drawing together. “Sorry. I did not know I was... I wasn't really aware of what I was doing.”

_Idiot!_ “No, no, it is wonderful... you are wonderful... I could listen to the sounds of your pleasure all my life long. I intend to listen to the sounds of your pleasure all my life long. It's just...” _Dammit, what is it about her that I seem incapable of coherent thought?_ “We left the window wide open.”

“Was I _that_ loud?”

“Yes, my love, and it has left me feeling very smug indeed.”

“Oh.” A moment's thought. “Perhaps if there were any people within earshot, they will think that we were sparring or some such, and I was merely out of breath from the exercise...”

Faramir laughed and drew Éowyn's head onto his bare chest. “Alas, my love, not only were the noises you made loud, they were very... distinctive.”

“Oh.” This time more drawn-out. Another pause. Then a downward glance towards the breeches he'd insisted on keeping in place, and the rather pronounced bulge at the front of those breeches. “I wonder whether you make a lot of noise...”

~o~O~o~

_Some time later still..._

A positively triumphant note in her voice: “I was right, you also make quite a lot of noise. And you were right – it is unmistakeable. And it doesn't sound in the slightest like someone out of breath after a vigorous fencing bout.” 

Éowyn smiled and nuzzled against his shoulder. Then offered another comment on proceedings. “Gods, that stuff is _sticky..._ ”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know, all I did was give Elfhelm a wife, give her a name and a line of dialogue, and next thing I know she's taken up residence in my head and is refusing to leave until I've written another chapter and given her a starring role in it.

As the sun plotted her stately way from furthest east, southwards and upwards in the sky, an errant beam of light sneaked between the shutters of the bedroom and, for a brief instant, lit the marshal's unnaturally pale face. With a groan of the sort more often uttered by his foes upon the battlefield (and then only in their death throes), Elfhelm rolled over and drew the coverlet over his head. The movement was a mistake; his guts decided to dance a merry jig, rivalled only by the troop of orcs apparently jumping on his head. Just when he thought his misery could plumb no further depths, the torture was added to by the grating sound of the hinge as the door swung open.

“It is two hours since the rest of the family broke their fast, my love, and I fear that the King will require your presence in the not too distant future.” Hilde had the sense to keep her voice low and soft.

Answer came in the form of an inarticulate but pained sounding grunt.

“I've brought you breakfast.”

This time, the grunts formed themselves into a sound just about recognisable as words. “Gods, no, woman!”

“Hot tea with a generous spoonful of honey, and fresh barmcakes with salted ham. And a bowl of porridge with more honey and cream.”

“Do you want to be the death of me?” The marshal opened one bloodshot eye to stare dolefully at his wife.

“Ach, you know you'll feel better for eating a bit.” The Lady Hilde placed the tray on the dresser, and walked over to the bed. “Come on, sit up,” she said, in the tones she normally used with the children when they were sick. Elfhelm reluctantly managed to lever himself from the bed, and Hilde, brisk and businesslike, plumped the pillows behind him. Seeing him settled into a semi-upright position, she retrieved the tray and plonked it onto his lap. Then, as he eyed the food in the same manner he might eye a raging mûmak on the battlefield, she retreated and began to tidy the clothes he had cast to the four winds the night before. This was accomplished in semi-darkness; there was no way Hilde was going to add to her husband's woes by throwing open the shutters.

As she tidied, she cast the odd sidelong glance at Elfhelm. He took a few cautious sips of tea, then on discovering that liquids at any rate seemed to be staying in their allotted place, gingerly tried the porridge. To his surprise, the honey and cream seemed to make it sufficiently palatable that it too made the journey to his stomach without the threat of imminent return. By the time he had finished the ham and bread, and the rest of the large mug of tea, he felt much improved. Sufficiently improved that when his wife came within range he reached out a long arm and grasped her firmly by the arse, pulling her towards him. The passing years might have added a bit of padding to her curves, and a few silver strands to her corn coloured hair, but she was still a fine figure of a woman, in the Marshal's considered opinion.

“Elfhelm, what are you doing?” Hilde squeaked in outrage, but two and a half decades of reading her moods told him it was the sort of outrage which held a note of amusement, and a certain degree of appreciation for the attention.

“I'm saying good morrow to my wife, whom I have not seen these last few hours. Because unless I miss my guess, you slept with our daughters last night.”

“Aye, well, once I'd got you into the bed, you sprawled across three quarters of it, flat on your back, beyond any further movement, and snoring fit to wake the dead. You weren't the most enticing of company.” She pouted in mock annoyance, but nonetheless sat on the edge of the bed. Elfhelm let his hand settle on her hip.

“And whose fault was that then?” Having cast the tray onto the stool by the bedside, Elfhelm's other hand reached out and grasped her waist, pulling her further onto the bed.

“Well, I'm not sure I'd call it 'fault'. I merely told you what was necessary, and you, being a sensible man, did what I told you.”

“Aye, well, I'm the one with the pounding headache. So it seems to me that you should be the one to make amends...” Elfhelm's hands slid into the small of her back, his fingers lacing together. 

“Amends, you say? Why do you think I brought you breakfast in bed even though you've lain so late, and why do you think I've been at such pains not to open the shutters? If it was just a case of too much ale with your riders, there'd have been no breakfast, you can be sure I'd have greeted you much earlier with a lot of clattering and the curtains drawn wide to let the sun in.”

“Well, if not making amends, then how about celebrating? After all, it's not often I drink a much younger man under the table, and him the second most powerful man in Stoningland too!” Elfhelm leaned over and planted a kiss on Hilde's lips. “And then of course, I'd be getting one over on him twice – once for out drinking him last night, and a second for getting a willing woman in my bed this morning when all he has to look forward to is the long ride back to the Mundburg with only his kinsmen for company.”

“And who says you've got a willing woman in your bed?” Hilde asked, but the way her hand slid across Elfhelm's chest and found its way inside his nightshirt gave the lie to her words. His hands tightened round her and he pulled her close.

“Oh, I think after all these years, I can tell,” he whispered into her ear.

“I think you always could tell,” she replied.

“Ha! Do you remember how much trouble we got into the time I brought you home to your parents, not realising the back of your dress was covered in blueberry stains from rolling around in the heather?”

“Oh, we got given merry hell for that!”

“But they brought the date of the wedding forward, just in case.”

“Just as well!”

~o~O~o~

Ten miles further south, on the road to Anórien.

“Your pardon, uncle!”

Imrahil looked on with a certain degree of resignation as the Steward of Gondor slid from the saddle and lowered himself to the ground for the third time that morning. His countenance an unnatural shade of viridian, he limped into the bushes at the side of the road. A retching sound reached the ears of the Prince and his sons. The younger men did nothing to disguise their amusement.

“Tulkas' rod, Faramir, what possessed you to get into a drinking contest with Marshal Elfhelm the night before we left for Gondor? Not only are you suffering the consequences today, it made you insufferably poor company for your betrothed last night. And it made you sufficiently unsteady on your feet that you appear to have sprained your ankle at some point in your drunken revelries.”

Faramir hopped his way to his uncle's side, and, checking his cousins were not within earshot, said in a low voice, “Well, I didn't actually get much choice. About getting drunk that is. And the ankle was already sprained. You see...”

~o~O~o~

A secluded herb garden to the rear of Meduseld, the previous afternoon.

It was a tone of voice which had struck terror into many hearts – young children, cheeky youths, idle herdsmen, saucy servants, even battle-hardened riders: none were immune to the Lady Hilde's dressing downs. The Steward of Gondor was no exception.

“Lord Faramir, what on earth do you think you are doing? Come down from there at once!”

It would be a lie to say that Faramir obeyed instantly. But the end result was the same. Normally sure footed and athletic, sheer surprise caused him to lose concentration, and with it his grip on the wooden frame of the building. With an undignified slither, he landed unceremoniously in the herb bed.

“To think I told my husband he had naught to fear from your behaviour because you were a gentleman! And yet here you are, climbing up to her bedroom window like some comic parody of a lover from a tuppenny travelling minstrel's song! And in broad daylight too. Béma knows anyone might have come upon you, and you'd have brought disgrace upon your lady. That's behaviour befitting an errant scoundrel, not the man my King has accepted as fit to marry his sister.” As the lady delivered this scolding, Faramir's face grew bright scarlet and he hung his head in shame, feeling for all the world like a small boy caught by his nurse doing something he had been told not to do. Then Hilde glanced upwards and caught sight of the open casement.

“Why, the window is open – don't tell me the two of you arranged this! She's as bad as you are, the hussy...” Suddenly the lady paused in mid flow, a thunderstruck look on her face as the full horror of the situation and its potential repercussions hit her. “This isn't the first time, is it?” Shamefacedly, Faramir shook his head. Hilde pursed her lips and thought for a moment before saying sternly. “Well, this must be dealt with, properly but discreetly. You, my lord...” (and the lord in question felt he suddenly grasped the meaning of the phrase her words dripped with sarcasm), “Shall go and wait for me in the hall. I will go and have words with the Lady Éowyn.” She turned on her heel and strode purposefully up the path, reminding Faramir of nothing so much as one of his uncle's warships under full sail.

Chastened, he got to his feet. With some trepidation he tested out his ankle which he feared might have taken a sprain, then walked, or rather, limped (for it was a bit tender) in the opposite direction towards the back door to the hall.

~o~O~o~

Elfhelm's lady rapped firmly on the wooden door.

“Lady Éowyn, I know you are in there. I have just evicted your paramour from the herb garden. I suggest you open this door this instant, otherwise I shall be forced to go to your brother and request that he come and break it down – and I presume that you do not wish to bear the consequences of me making such a request.”

There was the sound of footsteps within the chamber, a faint rustling, more steps, then the door opened part way. Hilde burst through it like a force of nature, then slammed it closed behind her. Her eyes opened wide at the sight before her.

Éowyn stood swathed in a blanket, clutching it round her with one hand, that arm bare all the way to the shoulder.

“Sacred Mother of the Harvest, girl, you're naked as the day you were born! Please tell me you were never waiting for him in that state.” Hilde took two long strides to the settle by the wall, and sat down heavily. “Merciful mother, you'll be the scandal of all ages. The wedding isn't for eleven months – and in case you hadn't noticed, while it's not uncommon to pass off a bairn born eight, seven or even six months after a wedding as just having come a bit before its time, there's no explaining one born two months before the wedding.”

Éowyn shuffled uncomfortably and pulled the blanket more tightly round herself. “We didn't do anything.”

“You expect me to believe that? If that's true, then I'm the King of Harad's favourite concubine,” snorted Hilde.

“Well, we didn't do that!” Éowyn amended her earlier claim. “I mean, obviously we did some things, but not the things that could get me with child...”

“And how long have some things been going on?”

Éowyn turned bright red. “For the last four... no, five days.”

“The scoundrel! I'll tan his hide for him. To think he seduced you into doing this.” Hilde's eyes were full of the light of battle. Éowyn hastily tried to douse the flames.

“He's not a scoundrel. It was my idea –I was the one who said to him that the other things couldn't lead to me getting with child.” The younger woman almost shouted in her heated defence of her young man. But Elfhelm's lady wasn't to be swayed from her course.

“He's well into manhood – he could have said no. And who put the notion of these other things into your head in any case?”

“Well, he might have mentioned them in passing.” Hilde could see the fight was beginning to go out of Éowyn – her shoulders sagged slightly.

“In passing?” Hilde gave another disdainful snort. “And the two of you were playing with fire. And whether or not you realised it, he must have done. Four or five days of disporting yourselves naked in your bed, and you thought it wouldn't lead anywhere.”

With a whumpf, Éowyn let herself drop to the floor where she sat, an untidy bundle of blanket and wild, uncombed hair. Looking at her, it struck Hilde that, scoundrel or no, the young lord must actually be possessed of considerable reserves of self-control if he could share a bed with such a beautiful and clearly passionate young woman and not... At this point one of Elfhelm's favourite phrases came to mind and she found herself struggling not to spoil the whole scene by laughing aloud. Inwardly, she completed the sentence: “and not shag her senseless.”

Éowyn turned an even deeper shade of pink and stared at the floor. She managed to murmur in a low voice, “Actually, you're right. I was beginning to find it very difficult. It probably was easier when I had no idea at all of what I was missing out on... but now. Well, my imagination's working overtime, and I just have this constant feeling... A sort of empty feeling that desperately needs to be filled and... That's if that makes any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense. For Béma's sake, girl, I've two boys grown to manhood and two girls in their teens. Do you think the stork brought them? But just because it makes sense doesn't make it right. You must see you were playing with fire. Can you imagine the diplomatic mess if he were to get you with child now? Thank goodness you hadn't actually...” Hilde gave the younger woman a sharp look. “Now's the time to be absolutely honest with me – you haven't, have you?”

“No, we really haven't...” Éowyn's voice trailed off. Hilde suddenly sensed there was more to come. Had it been her own daughters, she'd have harried and they would have clammed up. But somehow, Éowyn not being her own, she found she had the sense to wait for the words to come. And they did, eventually. “Though I did think, well, maybe tonight, maybe just once. Surely it wouldn't be too much of a risk just once. After all, some women marry and it takes a year or two. It doesn't always happen first time...”

“Béma's balls, are you a complete fool, girl?” The lady heaved a sigh and thought for a moment how to get the point across to the young woman – and suddenly, Éowyn, swathed in her blanket, looked very young indeed. At length she said, “I've been breeding horses pretty much all my life – Elfhelm's always off fighting somewhere or other, someone has to keep an eye on the stud books and the breeding lines. And I can tell you from long experience that as a breeder, you develop an eye for which pairings will work. Complementary traits from different bloodlines are always good, and when you get a keen sire who'd kick over the fence rails to get to an equally willing dam... well, you'll get a foal in no time.”

Éowyn couldn't help but look Hilde in the eye, her own eyebrows raising in surprised amusement at this metaphor. Hilde held her gaze and said, “I'd bet all my herds and the manor house we live in on you falling with child pretty much first time. Are you willing to take that risk? When your brother might well decide that mortal combat was the only way of restoring the honour of the House of Eorl?”

Éowyn nodded silently, but Hilde noted with a certain feeling of worry that there was still a look of slightly muted but unmistakeable defiance in the shieldmaiden's countenance.

“Come on girl, get yourself decently dressed and I'll do your hair. Then we'll go in search of your betrothed. I need to be absolutely certain he understands the gravity of the situation.”

~o~O~o~

Early evening, the guest chambers housing the Marshal and his Lady.

“I really thought they'd understood,” Elfhelm's lady said to him. “Certainly, I think he did. But as I turned to leave, I saw her give him the sauciest wink you ever did see. The wretched girl's still going to try to go through with it.”

“Well of course she is! They're young and in love, and they're healthy youngsters with healthy youngsters' appetites. Do you not remember our courtship, when your mother let us get to the stage of bundling.” The Marshal gave his wife a saucy wink of his own.

“And that's precisely the point of bundling! Because we all know what youngsters are like. All parents were young once themselves – that's how we got to be parents. But by the time my ma had sewn me into that sackcloth, there's no way we were going to get up to any mischief.”

“Aye, but it's amazing how hot and bothered we could both get, even with a layer of sackcloth in the way!”

“And that's precisely why this is so serious – there was no damned sackcloth! When I went to see Éowyn this afternoon, she hadn't a stitch on. They've been rolling around the bed naked together. It's an absolute wonder they haven't actually shagged yet – if she's telling the truth about that. I can only pray that she is.”

Elfhelm's face clouded. “You didn't tell me that bit.” 

Hilde saw his eyes flick to where his sword was propped against the wall. She felt about to burst with exasperation. “Men! You're so bloody slow sometimes. That's precisely what I have been telling you for the last half hour or so, while you wittered on about bundling and healthy youngsters' appetites. You just haven't been listening properly. Can you imagine what Éomer King will do if it turns out he has got her with child, elven whole months before the wedding? It doesn't bear thinking about.”

“Well, the best we can do at this stage is make sure nothing happens tonight.”

“And how do you propose we do that?” Hilde gave another of her characteristic snorts.

“Hmm,” Elfhelm said, musing aloud. “Perhaps you could sleep stretched across her doorway while I pace out sentry duty beneath her window? That would certainly do the trick.”

“Well that would be one way of making the deed impossible. And raise all sorts of awkward questions as to why we felt we had to do it.” Hilde frowned, deep in thought, then suddenly her brow cleared and she announced in triumph, “But I can think of another...”

~o~O~o~

The meal had finished, and everyone was full of fine food and pleasantly cheered by copious quantities of mead. Hilde swept down the centre of the hall, between the side tables with their long benches, filled with the rank and file of the riders and their wives. As she approached the high table upon its dais, she looked interrogatively at the dark and blonde heads, almost touching one another, as sweet nothings were whispered, and (she feared) plans for nocturnal misdeeds hatched. Hilde gave a triumphant smile as she came to a halt opposite the pair.

“And now, my Lord Faramir, it being your last night here, it is traditional for you to engage in þæt gefeoht ealoþ.”

Faramir and Éowyn spoke simultaneously: “A what?”; “Tradition? Since when?”

Hilde's smile became almost wolf-like. “A drinking contest, my Lord. And traditional since about three o'clock this afternoon, my Lady. My husband has been persuaded to uphold the honour of the Riddermark. If you would care to accompany, my Lord?”

Casting a slightly desperate backward glance towards his lady-love, Faramir could do nothing other than allow himself to be led to the other end of the high table where Elfhelm sat. The Steward of Gondor slumped into the vacant seat beside the Marshal, and watched, powerless, while Lady Hilde fetched two large drinking horns full of ale from the barrels at the far end of the hall, the first, presumably, of many. She came bustling back up the hall and handed them to the two men.

“You might as well resign yourself to your fate, my Lord,” Elfhelm said. “By tomorrow, you and I are both going to have hangovers such as will make the tortures of Angband seem trivial by comparison. Still, at least it's excellent ale.”

“Never mind tomorrow morning: what's more to the point is that tonight, my Lord,” Hilde whispered sotto voce, but with a degree of steely determination, “There's no way in hell you'll be able to get a cock stand by the time you've finished the contest.”

~o~O~o~

Epilogue: The banks of Anduin, ten and a half months later

“We've lost them in these woods. Shouldn't have let them race off across the Pelennor with such a head start.” Elfhelm made sure his comment to Hilde was loud enough to carry into the trees.

“Ah well, I suppose we'll have to picnic here and wait for them to come and find us,” Hilde replied in a penetrating stage whisper. She thought she heard a giggle from somewhere over to the west. Elfhelm obviously heard it too, for he gave her a wink, and started to unbuckle the saddle bags from his mount.

A couple of hours later, Hilde sat with her back against the trunk of an aged chestnut, Elfhelm lying with his head in her lap, the remains of a very filling picnic scattered beside them, not to mention a couple of empty wine skins. Hilde ran her fingers idly through her husband's dark blond hair.

“Your beard's getting whiter, you know. It suits you. Makes you look distinguished.”

Elfhelm laughed. “'Distinguished' is what people say to you to sweeten the fact that you're getting old.”

“Well, so am I,” Hilde chuckled. She ran her fingers along the braids in his hair, then stroked a few stray strands off his brow. “I wonder where the love birds have got to. Do you think they'll manage to find their way back here?” A faint note of genuine anxiety crept into her voice. 

“Sometimes, love, I think that because you caught the Steward climbing up the woodwork, you still think of him as some sort of erring young swain, when in fact he led the Rangers of Ithilien for many years, and is the best tracker I have ever come across – by a long way. He'll find us when they're ready.”

Hilde wound a strand of his hair round her fingers, then let it go again. Then she said thoughtfully, “Have you noticed how much earlier in the season everything seems to grow here in the south? The bushes are already covered in blueberries.”

“Are you maybe thinking that pale blue dress Éowyn was wearing will show up stains rather easily?”

“Maybe...” The two of them lapsed into the sort of companionable silence that comes with a long, comfortable relationship. Eventually Elfhelm spoke again.

“So, how much of pretending your horse couldn't keep up was because you want to adjust the odds in your favour?”

Hilde feigned innocence. “What are you suggesting, husband mine?”

“I heard tell of a book that had been opened on the timing of arrival of the Steward's heir. I'm guessing you've put your money on a fortnight short of nine months.”

“Well, you're wrong. Nine months on the nose,” Hilde said. Elfhelm raised his eyebrows interrogatively, and Hilde explained, “First babies are usually late.”

The sun had sunk halfway towards the horizon and Elfhelm had packed up the saddle bags by the time they heard the sound of hoofs. Éowyn and Faramir made their way into the clearing, leading their horses and holding hands with one another. Hilde studied their radiantly smiling faces and decided her money was probably safe. 

“We were beginning to think you'd got lost,” Elfhelm said, his face set in a studiously bland expression. Hilde struggled to suppress a giggle.

“Well, it took us a while to work out where you'd gone. We've been for a walk by the river.”

“And a fine afternoon for it... A walk, that is.” The Marshal's expression gave nothing away. Hilde had to take refuge in rolling up a rug so as not to meet his eyes.

Windfola tossed his mane, and Éowyn half turned to give her attention to his antics, at last giving them a chance to see the back of her bodice and seat of her skirts. Elfhelm's imperturbable look slipped slightly as he glanced at his wife in puzzlement. No blueberry stains at all.

“I suppose we'd best set off back,” Faramir said. “Do you want a leg up? Seeing as how you're wearing skirts rather than breeches?”

Eowyn nodded, and lifted her skirts slightly to raise one foot to the near stirrup. Hilde bit her lip in an attempt not to laugh. There might be no stains on her back, but her knees were covered in mud. Then Faramir caught hold of Éowyn's calf to boost her up, and in doing so gave Elfhelm and his lady a clear sight of the back of his pale linen shirt. Elfhelm saw Hilde clap her hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. It was the Steward of Gondor's back which was covered in blueberry stains!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acknowledgement: Blueberries courtesy of the Geological Survey of Canada. With thanks for the loan of the anecdote (you know who you are!)
> 
> Bundling – tying or sewing the girl's lower body into a quilt or sack – was customarily used in Scotland, particularly Orkney, as a way of allowing courting couples to spend time together in the safety of the girl's parents' house, even share a bed, without the risk of pregnancy.

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to Lady Bluejay for letting me pick up her idea and run with it (and for letting me borrow the running joke about cold baths). And thanks to Wheelrider and Sian22 for helpful suggestions on the draft.


End file.
